


Brave Face

by noplacespecial



Category: Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Future Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-01-02 06:47:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1053755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noplacespecial/pseuds/noplacespecial
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The day she turns 18, Ophelia runs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ....I don't even know. I would loveloveLOVE to turn this into the full-blown epic that it could be, but I just don't have the time, especially not when I'm working on several other multi-chaptered stories right now, too. Still I like the set-up, and god knows Veronica Mars is the only fandom in which I actually attempt to finish my WIPs (even if it takes me years), so I'm putting this out there. Make of it what you will.

The day she turns 18, Ophelia runs.

It's not too hard to start a new life when most of your old one isn't worth holding onto. New town, new name, and she tries to forget it all, but little moments stick despite her best efforts. These are the things she remembers: Letty's gnarled old hands weaving through the air as she told stories, the entire kitchen bathed in the aroma of her dinner and her perfume. Her mother's grave in the small church cemetery, headstone worn and chipped. Playing tag in the front lawn, hair streaming out behind her as she tore across the grass, always the fastest. Uncle Eli scooping her up for giant bear hugs, only stopping when she finally grew taller than he was and lifting became a technical difficulty. Antonio, the sweet-faced boy she lost her virginity to, holding her close as they panted breathlessly in the back of Hector's old pick-up truck. 

Antonio, the sweet-faced boy she lost her virginity to, lying face-down in a pool of his own blood.

He was in the wrong place at the wrong time, her best friend Mariluz tells her, and Ophelia knows this to be true. So she bides her time, and after she's blown out the candles they hand over the big birthday check consisting of all the money her mama managed to scrape together before she passed. It was supposed to be a college fund, but Ophelia's no fool. College life - flirting and boyfriends and classes and frat parties - that was never in the cards for her. Instead, she flees. She literally runs to the bus stop, races joggers on the sidewalk who don't even know they're losing, feels her hair lift off her back and a giddy leap inside, even with far much more at stake than neighborhood bragging rights.

Antonio was in the wrong place at the wrong time. She has no control over whether that may happen to her - that's kind of the definition of the phrase - but she's going to make damn sure that she's on the other end of the country where the wrong place and wrong time are a lot harder to come by.

She snorts now, remembering all of her careful planning, and can't think anything but _silly child_ as she stares at the note taped to her apartment door. The Fitzpatricks have made it pretty abundantly clear that the wrong place and the wrong time are not limited to Neptune, or even California. Her own boyfriend doesn't know where she lives and yet one of those scumbags had been standing right in front of her door sometime in the last 2 hours.

It occurs to her in a sudden jolt that one of them could still be lurking around the stairs or corridor. Hell, one of them could be lurking _inside_ , it's not as if they draw some sort of ethical line at breaking and entering. The thought clenches her heart in fear, Antonio's face swimming behind her eyes. She steadies herself with a deep breath, turns, and runs.

Again.

She's a little older this time around; a little wiser and a little more prepared. She's got all the necessities in her purse, and what's behind the door of her apartment is little more than creature comforts. Nothing of value, sentimental or otherwise. She sweeps her car, checking for anything that shouldn't be there, and when she's satisfied that she's not going to be tailed or blown up, she hops into the driver's seat and peels out of the parking lot, headed for the nearest highway.

She drives for nearly an hour on autopilot, until the quiet drone of traffic and the purring of the engine lull her into calm, allow her muscles to slowly unclench and relax, one by one. The adrenaline wanes off into a steady thrum behind her ears and the rest of the world comes back into focus. She had always hoped it wouldn't come to this, but it was always a possibility. She has options, contingency plans for her contingency plans.

This is one of the things she remembers from her old life: her Uncle Eli pulling her close, telling her she could always come to him if she needed help and Letty wasn't able to give it to her for some reason, who to call if he himself wasn't able to give it to her for some reason. Even at age nine, she knew damn well what "for some reason" meant.

Letty passed years ago, god rest her soul. Ophelia is mollified by the fact that she was comfortable and surrounded by loved ones, simply succumbing to the years, but it doesn't make the loss sting any less. Uncle Eli disappeared off the face of the earth the year she started high school, and most of the other family she grew up around were either six feet under, or worthless punks who were headed in that direction pretty soon. She purposely hasn't made any attachments since then, both a blessing and a curse. Nowhere to go and no one to turn to is a familiar feeling, but last time she did this was preemptive; she didn't have someone already gunning for her. So Ophelia scrolls down her contact list and pulls out her secret weapon, the sound of dialing loud within the quiet interior of the car. Her hands clench the steering wheel tightly, worrying over the dips and knots like a makeshift rosary.

Veronica Mars answers on the second ring.


	2. and the back seat is only a breath away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this isn’t _technically_ a second chapter, but in my mind it falls within the same universe. Jaq posted this prompt on LJ a few years ago but I never edited and posted it until now. Also I'm pretty sure it was supposed to be porn, but that rarely works out well for me. 
> 
> Weevil is in hiding (don't know from whom or what ...there are so many holes in this vague sketch of a plot right now that Shia LeBeouf is probably about to show up), and Veronica is helping clear his name, get Ophelia out of trouble, and take down the Fitzpatricks. I kinda had this idea that she spends a chunk of time with Weevil hiding in the backseat of her car playing the lewd, sarcastic peanut gallery. I don't know if it's something that I'd keep if I actually ever decided to continue this fic, but that’ll never actually happen, so no worries.

No matter how long she had been in the PI business, Veronica didn't think she was ever going to get down with stakeouts. She recognized their necessity, of course; but at the end of the day, sitting in once place for an extended period of time was simply _not_ her strong suit. Granted, most stakeouts didn’t usually come equipped with color commentary from the back seat, and she was still torn as to whether it was a blessing or a curse.

"If this guy spent half as much time planning his operations as he did talking to his cats, we'd never catch him," Weevil crowed in amusement.

"If you make a pussy joke, I'm leaving you by the side of the road," she responded flatly. He snickered and hunched down even lower as an oblivious couple drunkenly stumbled past on their way into the bar. It had been good luck to find this vantage point - Veronica’s beat-up old LeBaron didn't look out of place in the crowded parking lot, and this late at night most of the patrons were too plastered to care that she was quite clearly casing the joint across the street. Or that there was a guy crouched down on the floor, half-covered by her grandma’s afghan.

"Wouldn't dream of it," he promised, and seeing movement out of the corner of her eye Veronica glanced in the rear view mirror just in time to see him flash the scout's honor hand signal with a solemn expression. "I'm a changed man, remember? The new, improved, mature Eli Navarro." Veronica snorted.

"Yesterday you were watching Beavis and Butthead reruns in your underwear and getting Cheeto dust all over my couch," she reminded him, and the familiar grin slipped into place across his features.

"I'm a work in progress," he amended. Veronica ducked her head to hide a smile, and raised the binoculars to her eyes once more. As had been the case for the past three hours they'd been sitting here, there was no movement of any importance happening in the little brick shithole apartment complex across the street. Paul Shumaker had popped a burrito into the microwave right after they first got into position, and shortly thereafter had parked his ass on a ratty-looking recliner, alternating between tossing bites to his pair of pet tabbys and reading Playboy. She heaved a sigh.

"This is a total bust," she groaned, impatient. She had to pee, and her ass was going numb. "Ready to go?"

"Meet’s not until midnight," Weevil pointed out oh-so-helpfully.

"It's ten ‘til; he would’ve had to be out the door half an hour ago if he had any prayer of making it to Carlton Heights in time. There's no way he's going anywhere except into the bedroom to get rid of the happy he's getting from all those skin mags." Another group of young people passed by the car, giving her an odd look as she seemingly babbled to the empty passenger seat. "Also people are starting to think that I'm crazy." Weevil laughed loudly, shaking the tassels on the edges of the afghan.

"Mars, people have been saying that for years, and I wouldn't necessarily disagree with them. Come on, climb back here with me so it doesn't look like you're talking to yourself."

"Oh yeah, looks much better to be hooking up in the back seat of a car like redneck teenagers," Veronica groused, but unbuckled and shimmied gracelessly across the armrest anyway. Weevil climbed up onto the seat and offered a hand to help her back. When they tumbled clumsily into place in the small car, his face was right in front of hers, grinning shamelessly.

"I would be happy to help you out if you wanted to lend a little authenticity to that cover," he offered. Veronica rolled her eyes and shoved at his shoulder, but didn't move away. She probably should have. But her judgment hadn't exactly been sound lately, as evidenced by the fact that she was harboring a fugitive who also happened to be an ex, with no idea as to what her next move was going to be in either situation.

"I'm sure you would.” She expected a smart-ass reply, but Weevil simply stretched his legs out in front of him and sagged a little closer, whether by intent or coincidence she wasn't sure. 

"You know we've got to wait him out," he said seriously. "To be sure." Veronica nodded in the dark.

"I know. And if he goes, we go after him."

"There's no we about it," Weevil snorted. "You go after him, I hide and... what? Destroy him with my wit?"

"Well, I don't think there's much chance of that happening." But Weevil didn't respond to the jab, didn't even crack a smile. Instead he kicked hard at the back of the passenger's seat, grunting in frustration. 

"I hate this," he growled, as if he hadn’t spent the past week making this point perfectly clear, ad nauseam. She wasn't too crazy about the situation either, but it wasn't as if they had much of a choice.

"If it helps, I'm pretty used to going it alone, and having my Backup hunched down behind me." Weevil turned to her, incredulous.

"Are you comparing me to your _dog_ , Mars?" Veronica shrugged.

"If the muzzle fits..." He chuckled, but the mirth was short-lived.

"I just hate having to have you fight my battles for me. As much as I know you're capable of it," he added quickly. Veronica smiled.

"Hey," she said before she could stop herself. She knocked their knees together, and - in perhaps another show of bad judgment, she wasn't even sure anymore - laid her hand atop Weevil's knee. "Our battles," she corrected. “This is my town too, remember?” He didn't answer, but he did slip his hand over her own, and she felt something in her chest catch and release in the muted darkness.

Across the street, Shumaker's light flipped off. The clock on the dash read three minutes past twelve, but neither of them were in any hurry to move.


End file.
